Yellow
by A Little Rusty
Summary: Pure fluff. An attempt, a wedding and a broken arm. Also, the color yellow... Sherlock Holmes was almost never wrong and it's odd how Molly Hooper was almost always involved when it DOES happen. Three short pieces, showing you how. Accompaniment to From a Boy.


**Yellow: An Accompaniment to From a Boy**

******Pure fluff. An attempt, a wedding and a broken arm. Also, the color yellow... **Sherlock Holmes was almost never wrong and it's odd how Molly Hooper was almost always involved when it DOES happen. Three short pieces, showing you how. Accompaniment to From a Boy. 

**Disclaimer: boo**

* * *

**A month after his return:**

Sherlock waits for her in the lab. It's dim but he likes what comfort the darkness offers.

He doesn't have to wait for very long, he knows she'll eventually stumble in.

And she does. She walks in carrying an impressive stack of folders, shoulders slumped.

"Oh hello!" she sounds surprised but manages to not jump, "did you just come in?" she pauses by the door.

And without meaning to, Sherlock Holmes makes a quick deduction of her in his head. Eyes quickly flitting over her.

She's on the eleventh hour of her shift, judging by how she was almost dragging her feet. He also knows this because he has a copy of her schedule shoved somewhere in 221B. For convenience's sake, the man says.

She was carrying folders... going over some labs then paperwork after? If she wasn't too tired, yes, of course.

Had pasta for lunch; alone - as usual; not many people elect to converse with people who were regularly surrounded by the departed. Let alone a cheery, mousy woman like Molly - her personality greatly conflicting with her job description. They find her company disconcerting. Though he doesn't understand why; he rather enjoys her morbid humor.

Hmm, did one postmortem? A considerable amount of lab testing and analyzing... and one distinctly difficult case. Hmm, interesting. He makes a mental note to ask her more about it later.

Judging by the amount of folders (cases, probably) she was carrying, she was behind on paperwork.

She was giving him a timid, nervous sort of smile like she knew in that half second space before his reply, he was deducing her day.

And it strikes Sherlock, not for the first time, that Molly Hooper understands him. Simply gets his impossibilities.

A feat he will always marvel at.

He never did need to be vocal with her. He may be able to deduce a man's life story by the trousers he wears but Molly Hooper will always hold that talent. Being able to deduce what this machine of a man was feeling and thinking...

And he's eager to show her that he understands her too.

Sherlock grips the flowers behind his back tighter.

He more than appreciates her. Three years ago he would've died had it not been for her.

It's been a month since his return but he has never really shown her how truly grateful he was, has he?

A gesture of sorts should be in order...

He comes out of his half second stupor.

"Ah, Molly, rather irresponsible of you," he starts. "Leaving paperwork at the last minute," he tuts. "What would the dearly departed say?"

She laughs. And Sherlock likes how it tinkles.

_"Always _have to be the clever one, don't you?" Molly shakes her head, flipping through her lab results, "you could just ask me how my day went, you know," she looks up at him, still laughing, and shrugs her shoulders, "...like a _normal_ person."

She's tired but she still manages to laugh - Molly Hooper is easily the most peculiar woman he knows.

He gives a chuckle, careful to make it rumble. He knows how much she likes that.

"I apologize," he makes a great show of solemnly bowing his head, "how was your day?" she gives him another laugh then proceeds further into the room while replying with;

"Not too bad, actually. Had one rather difficult case but that's all right now," she was sitting on her stool now by the computer. "And yes, I've got a _mountain_ load of paperwork to do," her head bobbing up and down; she was also patting the stack of folders.

She stays quiet for a bit still smiling fondly at him then, "what's that behind your back, by the way?"

His turn to look timid and nervous.

He clears his throat but carries on.

Sherlock takes slow deliberate steps to her side, careful to keep the flowers hidden.

Her smile slowly drops when she sees the grave expression on his face.

"Sherlock?" she says nervously, no doubt wary he was in a spot of trouble again.

He shakes his head because yes, he understands her. His pathologist is a natural born worrier.

He procures the flowers from his back.

The consulting detective knows they're her favorites.

A week into his return and Lestrade still refused to supply him with cases, so he sneaked into her flat in search of Toby. He found him in her room and that's when he saw it...

A single sunflower designed on her teal lamp shade. From childhood, he deduces, given by her father.

_Sentiment._

So to show his gratitude and his 'infinite' knowledge of Molly, he buys her a bundle of long stemmed sunflowers. He refuses to use the term bouquet.

What he doesn't expect is Molly Hooper not following the sentiment behind the gesture;

"What's that?" she sounds confused.

Sherlock Holmes tries his hardest not to show his utter bewilderment. _Was she being deliberately daft?_

"Sunflowers, your favorite," he shakes the still proffered bundle.

It's when her face dawns to a surprised expression of understanding that he finally entertains the idea...

_He might have been **wrong**. __(one)_

His hand staggers minutely.

He processes her reaction.

Wide eyed expression, denotes surprise. Flushed cheeks, she was pleased. Her eyes were sparkling, she was happy... All this yet she wasn't taking the blasted flowers.

_Christ, _he's tempted to run a hand up and down his face.

He lets his hand drop.

... Why was he doing this again?

"They aren't your favorite," he deadpans.

She shakes her head and says slowly, "No, daisies are. I like daisies."

He clenches his jaw. Of course, they wouldn't be her favorite! An attempt at showing gratitude, a simple gesture no less, and somehow he manages to screw this (_one bloody thing_) up; he sneered in contempt.

He was turning on his heel, ready to bin the stupid flowers, when she gets up and frets over him.

"Not that I don't like them, I do. They're lovely, Sherlock!" she's now in front of him holding her hands up to stop him.

He growls at her platitudes. Molly Hopper deserves more than an attempt. She deserves a man who could do _sentiment_ right.

He sidesteps and continues with his angry gait, eager to leave. Molly Hooper may be small but she's fast. She's in front of him again, nervous smile in place.

"I love it, Sherlock. Honestly, I do," she says softly, holding her hand out, ready to accept his botched up gift.

He's not as yielding.

"Daisies are for _children,"_ Sherlock bites out through his teeth.

"... I know," she sounds withered.

He sighs frustratedly. He somehow managed to upset his pathologist... yet again. All this was entirely too uncertain for him.

For one who craves factual data and feeds off on the most certain things of all certain things, he truly is going through so much to make this woman happy. He wonders how that happened.

But Molly Hooper will always be the most patient woman he knows. Her hands still up, looking nervous but she's smiling softly.

Sherlock doesn't know why but he's reluctant to hand them over. He bought them specifically for her... but they don't feel quite right anymore. He huffs but eventually hands them over.

"Thank you," she's smiling prettily up at him.

He doesn't say anything but goes to sulk in front of his microscope. As an act of redemption he decides to wait for her to finish then he would escort her home.

Molly Hooper shakes her head fondly and goes back to her paperwork.

"What gave you the idea sunflowers were my favorite?" she asks, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. Sherlock Holmes was almost _never_ wrong. And it's odd how she was almost always involved when it _does_ happen.

"Lamp shade," he calls miserably from his spot.

She sniggers, "The one my dad gave me?" She thinks out loud, "He couldn't find one with daisies," Sherlock looks over to her and just knew she would be smiling privately to herself, "I didn't have the heart to tell him I liked the white ones best and not the yellow ones."

He grunts.

They settle into comfortable silence. They've always been good at that. Five years ago, when she just met him, she would've made an attempt at awkward conversation but over the years she has learnt his odd behavior. And she likes this. They've finally settled into what she can only interpret as some _sort_ of friendship. It's not... normal, to say the least.

The pathologist and the world's only consulting detective.

They really do make quite the unorthodox pair... but she finds she doesn't mind. It's a bit lovely, actually.

Molly continues to click on her keyboard while Sherlock broods on the other end of the table.

"Why not the yellow ones?" he pipes up after awhile.

"Hmm?" she tilts her chin to him, eyes not leaving the computer screen.

"Why white not yellow?" he repeats; Sherlock finds he could always speak in shorthand with Molly.

"Oh," she waves a hand flippantly, "Just thought they were prettier, is all," she says distractedly.

"Really? A bit odd that... I always thought yellow would be your favorite color," Sherlock says thoughtfully.

"How so?" she faces him finally. How could she not? She's having a conversation with Sherlock Holmes ABOUT blimey COLORS. And somehow she has this feeling he was about to say something honest.

Sherlock Holmes isn't looking at her but rather at his microscope, fiddling with the knobs.

With his head bent he looked ever the shy schoolboy. He shrugs his shoulders and says in affected nonchalance;

"Yellow's bright and... cheerful," he clears his throat uncomfortably. "Two things I have always associated with you..." his eyes flick to her for a moment then back to his microscope;

"You've always been the color yellow."

_Faith, even when I let you down_

* * *

**John's wedding:**

He takes the time to observe his pathologist.

She's at the table with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and his wife, and Harry. They're all laughing at something Lestrade said, and he doesn't have to be a consulting detective to figure out it probably had something to do with Molly. She's hiding her flushed face with both her hands and even from here he can see her mouth move a mile a minute...

She looks happy.

She's smiling and there's a becoming shade of red on her cheeks.

Sherlock Holmes likes his Molly Hooper cheerful.

He moves around again, careful to keep to the table's and John's blindside.

He's looking at Molly again from his hiding spot.

There's some sort of ornament in her hair that Mary has made all the bridesmaid wear. It would have looked ridiculous but he found it surprisingly... endearing on Molly.

She's also wearing yellow.

Aesthetically speaking, out of all the bridesmaids, she wasn't the _most_ beautiful but somehow... Sherlock finds her the loveliest. It's the color yellow, he thinks.

There's something about yellow on Molly Hooper that simply looks... _brilliant_. He doesn't understand why and doesn't waste time giving it more thought.

She's in the middle of telling a story and she looks like she fits in wonderfully. Happy to be surrounded by people that count. She's smiling and laughing, probably making odd jokes - he deduces. No, he didn't have to. He just _knows _she would be_._

_..._

He feels out of place, things like these have never really been his area.

He scuffs his polished shoes, feeling petulant and insolent.

And this _goddamn_ bow tie won't stay in place! He's half tempted to just rip it off but then John would harass him about it all throughout the evening. Mrs. Hudson would take the liberty to put it on him again and he really doesn't want everyone to see his landlady fussing over him.

He turns back to Molly.

She's standing now. Her head turning here and there, looking for him he bets. His appointed handler for the night.

He's well hidden of course, even when she's looking straight at him she won't find him. He's always been exceptional at hiding.

Mummy Holmes' greatest dilemma raising him as a boy.

Sherlock drowns his glass of champagne in one go and comes out of his hiding place

Her back's to him when he reaches her. Sherlock taps her shoulder and as expected she jumps.

"Oh there you are!" she says happily.

"Dance?" he mumbles. Partly because John expects him to and partly because (and this realization astonishes him greatly) he really does want to.

"Sorry, what?"

"_Dance with me_," he means it to come out softly but he's nervous when he really shouldn't be. And that makes him feel on edge. Instead they seem to seethe out his lips. But Molly understands him all the same.

"Oh you want me to dance with you!" she nods her head in understanding, "yea, we could do that. Yea, no, definitely!... Oo-kay," she finishes awkwardly.

He leads them to the dance floor. And pulls her closer.

Terrible _terrible_ mistake.

She looks even lovelier up close.

Her already doe eyes look even bigger and her lips look ridiculously delicate. And if Sherlock Holmes were to bend down and kiss them he's sure she wouldn't quite mind... no no **no,** of course she would.

He's already kissed her twice and he's not entirely sure it would be fair game if he made another attempt. Though this time it would have been for the right reason... But for what exactly, he doesn't know.

He takes his eyes off her and scans the crowd for want of distraction. He forgets the pathologist he's dancing with and tunes into the mass of mingling guest - deducing them at lightening speed.

He can feel Molly Hooper looking up at him almost expectantly.

He glances down.

He feels a bit hot under the collar.

_You know, he always thought that in a situation like this **she** __would__ be the overtly nervous one._ _(two)_

But instead she's collected and there's a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

A quick look at Molly Hooper's thoughts: She gets it. She's just waiting for him to make the first move.

But Sherlock (our brilliant but rather slow boy) isn't sure WHEN to actually make it... Awkward business, all this.

It will take him more than half a year to finally get it right...

In the background he hears the distinctive shutter of a camera but pays it no heed.

(Later, much later, John will hand him an envelope. He doesn't even have to open it to know what's inside. He'll be irritated and act nothing but boorish to John after... but all the same he keeps the photograph. Something in him _just knows_ that years from now, Molly Hooper will be glad to know he kept it.)

(_Slight_ _SLIGHT A Scandal in Bohemia reference_.)

His eyes flit the crowd again.

They dance in silence for awhile but eventually he turns back to her.

"Did you know rubber tires are actually just one big molecule?" he doesn't know why THAT particular bit slipped out.

"Oh, are they really?" she asks conversationally, though he knows she's only humouring him. Molly Hooper is amazing.

And as simple as that, they fall back in sync.

Sherlock spews useless trivia after trivia. Mostly about chemistry, his first love. Finding the act both calming and quite the natural progress.

And soon after she's laughing again and he's deducing everyone out loud while they dance comfortably.

They dance three more times.

You could see Mary, _piss drunk_, in the background requesting slow song after slow song.

And Lestrade walking up to John, handing him twenty pounds. John looking smug as ever.

And Mrs. Hudson smiling fondly at the unexpected pair.

_You and me, always between the lines_.

* * *

**221B Baker Street:**

_He never really thought Molly to be particularly_ _**spiteful**. (three)_

Though the yellow cast around his right forearm says otherwise.

It's covered in childish drawings and graffitied all around with words.

Things like:

_I (heart) Toby._

_MH rocks._

_Sock index forever._

_xx Molly Hooper_

_I almost got MH killed._

_King Dork._

He was still inspecting his cast laid ontop the pillows beside him when she walks into his room.

"Glad to see you're awake," she says cooly from the door.

He rolls his eyes.

"How many times do I have to apologize?"

"Make it to a hundred then I'll let you know when you're half way there," she says clearly still upset.

She sets his pain medication beside him on his nightstand and goes to leave. Sherlock Holmes is frustrated that it's his right hand that's injured otherwise he could've grabbed her elbow with more grace.

He almost totters off the bed which was all right, he guesses, because instantly Molly's cool facade drops. Doesn't matter it was at the cost of his dignity.

"Christ, you all right?" she helps him maneuver to a sitting position.

Sherlock tries his best to cool his embarrassed cheeks, head leaning back on the headboard and eyes shut tight in physical pain.

Should not have done that, should NOT have done that. He waits for the pain that shot up his arm to subside.

The things he goes through for this woman. Honestly.

What happened was this:

...

"How has this become a recurring thing?" she screams in the odd way you do when you're mad but you need to stay quiet.

They're on a case again.

And Sherlock thinks maybe he shouldn't have brought her along.

"Tell John to stop going on vacation," he bites back irritatedly.

"What do you mean vacation! It's his wedding anniversary, Sherlock!" she half whispers half shouts.

They were maneuvering through dark alleyway after dark alleyway. Running from derange goons that were out to hunt them.

London is nothing but a playground to Sherlock Holmes. He knows his city in and out. It would be no problem to out smart them on his home turf.

They're now pressed to the side of an alley hidden in the shadows, her hand in his. They needn't run around anymore. All they have to do is stay hidden until Lestrade comes with back up.

"Honestly, Molly, things like this almost never happens on a case. You must got to have the worst timing ever," he whispers.

"Me? ME?" her incredulous half whisper half shout.

He nods his head and tells her to keep quiet.

"Dear lord, you must hate me, Sherlock," she bemoans beside him. They're inching to the mouth of the alley so he could check around it.

"Is this why? Why you bring me on utterly dangerous cases," she's almost hysterical and in a panic. Life and death situation and all.

She misses her lab. The only danger there was starting a zombie apocalypse.

She makes an oath to never go on cases with him ever again. She should've already figured this bit out when she went on a case with him some four months ago. You have not lived until you've had the Swedish mafia on your trail.

Though she feels split two ways about that case. Yea, he almost got them killed but on the other hand, it kind of sort of bumped up their 'relationship', rather odd but it's them - did you really expect anything else?

They're closer to the opening now.

"Oh dear god, you do. You hate-" he's still checking around the bend when he cuts her off;

"Calm down, Molly, I don't," he whispers.

He faces her again.

"Quite the opposite, actually," he says, nodding his head with his lips mock solemly pressed together.

It would be _so_ him to make a confession in a middle of an escape attempt.

She plonks her forehead just below his shoulder defeatedly. She sighs out all her anxiety, the way you do when you just finally let go and accept your ill fate.

"You win," comes her tired groan.

"What are you on about?" he says and there's a hint of amusement to his voice.

She lightly beats a fist to his chest.

"I can't stay mad at you when you just practically confessed you're in love with me," she's bemoaning again.

She stays quiet and Sherlock Holmes can feel her gleeful grin.

"Not fair," she's chuckling into his coat now.

"I didn't say that," he teases, "jumping to conclusions, Molly? What would your mother say? Not at ALL very lady-like, I imagine."

She pinches his arm.

"Shut up," she rests her chin on his shoulder looking up at him.

"Just don't get me killed," she whispers, her voice small.

"Wouldn't dream of it, love," he teases.

They hear footsteps running, from the pavement beyond.

"May I?" he asks his head jerking to the opening.

"If you must," she sighs.

He gives her a quick peck then lets go of her hand.

Just as the man was about to run pass their alley, Sherlock shoots his arm out - making the man land on his back.

Sherlock grabs the fallen man's gun.

"Resist and I will shoot you," he says menacingly. "Get up."

He then pushes him into the alley.

What the great detective doesn't expect is the man procuring a lead pipe from his baggy jeans and taking a swing at his head.

Sherlock wasn't quick enough to grab it but raises his forearm in self defense, making him drop the gun.

Then they brawl.

Sherlock Holmes ducking to avoid the damn pipe, arm broken but still keeping up. Prepared to die fighting for Molly Hooper's safety. But thank god for little miracles... because in the struggle Molly took hold of the gun and on instinct shoots up.

A half second of distraction is all Sherlock Holmes needs to one up the other man.

And that's how they got here...

...

Sherlock open his eyes and is greeted with Molly's concerned face.

She smiles tiredly at him. And it started out slow with Sherlock's snigger until they both were giggling.

He pulls her over him and into bed so she's snuggled into his good side.

He wraps around her and rests his arm on her stomach with his head bent behind her shoulder. He gives it a light kiss.

"Forgive me..." he nuzzles her neck, "What happened was most unfortunate and I'm sorry I put you through it. I accept whatever grievances you may have. You have been nothing but wonderful to me and it was horrible of me to put you in harm's way. COMPLETELY reckless and UTTERLY insensitive of me. I apologize..."

Closer to her ear now, "Say you forgive me, Molly?" and it's heartfelt and she could write odes to the deepness and the velvet beauty that was his voice.

And it was utterly _utterly_ unfair.

She twists back so her forehead meets his.

"Not fair," she groans.

_I'll be right there beside you... no, I'm not going anywhere._

* * *

**Truth be told Sherlock Holmes is the most difficult character to write. He always comes out a bit feminine when I do make an attempt. Bah.**

**The teal lamp shade was borrowed from my other fic, TIMING.**

**Also this is sort of an accompaniment to From a Boy.**

**I think the wedding was my favorite. You?**

**Yea heyy, which one did you like best!**

**xx**


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